


give us a little love

by egelantier



Series: as a seal over your heart [1]
Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Relationship, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:21:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29403300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/pseuds/egelantier
Summary: After her father had foolishly backed the Tethimada in a failed coup against Varenechibel IV, Csethiro had to marry the Emperor's unloved fourth son and join him in relegation. She was prepared to endure any hardship for the sake of her family, but the reality of their first meeting proved to be very different from her expectations.
Relationships: Csethiro Ceredin/Maia Drazhar
Series: as a seal over your heart [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193558
Comments: 51
Kudos: 101
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	give us a little love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noun/gifts).



> Dear Noun, thank you for your delightful prompts! Your letter gripped me and wouldn't let go. I'm afraid I didn't manage to go all the way to Dark Fuck Prince Maia, but I hope you might enjoy this version of his and Csethiro's first meeting nevertheless.

_...the court is quieting down. Oh, and a tidbit that might interest you, dear Aizheän: rumor has it that the Ceredada house, whose head so carelessly sided with the Tethimada in the coup, bought their lives from His Serenity by pledging their youngest to be married to Archduke Maia. Nobody knows for sure, but it seems that the marriage was performed in absentia, and nobody has seen the bride since. The Ceredada were allowed to leave for the country, and even kept their lands, so there might be something to this._

_I see Csoru's hand in this decision, since she has always disliked the Ceredada girl. She and her ladies are spreading words about my poor half-brother: he's an imbecile, he's mad, he drinks the blood of elvish babies and tortures the servants, he this, he that. I wouldn't trust Csoru's opinion on the color of the sky, of course, but one can't help but pity poor Csethiro, sent away on so callous an errand. Still - it might be that she finds the quiet of the Archduke's exile to be more palatable than the Untheileneise._

_But enough of this; tell me more about how your experiments progress. Did you finally manage to find the right combinations of the valves? I find it interesting that..._

* * *

Of all the small and big humiliations of that worst time in Csethiro's life, being escorted to her husband's house rankled the most. The courier sent along with her, Mer Aisava, was polite to her and carefully referred to her by her new title; she hated the sound of it, yet appreciated the formality. But the three soldiers didn't pretend to be anything but a precaution against an escape attempt, and she despised them. She had given her word. Despite her father's criminally foolish choices, she was a noblewoman - she was still a subject of the Ethuveraz - her word was worth her family's life, her mother's and her sisters' and her father's. Why would she break it?

The ride to Edonomee took four days of rocky travel in a closed carriage. Csethiro tossed and turned through four nights of lumpy beds in the roadside inns, buffeted between rage and fear, denial and towering self-pity. She'd always known she would one day be married to advance her family's interests, but she'd also always been promised that her feelings would be considered, that she would be protected; that there'd be a dowry, that she'd take her own people into her husband's house, that she'd carve a space for herself within the court. That her family would stand with her.

Instead her father allowed himself to be led - stupid, so stupid, so selfish, so careless with the lives of his family - and the stream of her future dwindled to nothing: to the small chapel in the Untheileneise’meire, where she stood, choking on furious tears under her veil, listening to the Archprelate marry her to empty air.

She knew believing Csoru's faction about anything was a foolish thing to do. But His Serenity _did_ keep all his sons with him, favored and unfavored - all except one. What could her husband (she practiced the word in her mind, determined not to choke on it the first time she said it out loud) have been hidden for, so far away from the court? And - even assuming that he was hale and healthy and sane - after so many years in exile, would he be bitter? Angry? Would he be offended by this marriage, one in which he didn't even know himself to be a groom? Would he take his anger out on Csethiro?

Her fingers ached for the sword she no longer had. One heard rumors of marriage life that - she'd always _known_ the darker stories, and she'd thought that it'd never happen to her, she'd never allow it to happen to her. That she'd have her sword and her wit and her mother's love and her father's protection, and she'd make her way through the world untouched. And now -

\- and now, if Archduke Maia Drazhar wanted to hurt her, she'd bear it, she'd have to bear it. (" _You'll be in our hearts, dear Csethiro, and we'll think of you often,"_ Csoru had said, with her poisonous little smile of a spoiled child about to tattle, and had meant, unmistakably, _you'll be watched_.) 

She'd have to bear it.

* * *

By the time the carriage turned towards the marshy roads of Thu-Evresar, her curiosity finally re-asserted itself. She knew, vaguely, that the prince had been relegated somewhere far and remote, but she had imagined something similar to Cetho, only much smaller. The last town before Edonomee, Calestho, was smaller than one of Cetho's tiniest districts - and they rattled through its streets without stopping, and followed the dwindling roads further into the marches.

 _Fine_ , she thought then, _the country estate_ , and tried to wrest away the stab of fresh fear at being trapped somewhere so far away. Still, the country might be better than some imitation of social life, given the scandal and precarity of her position. Perhaps she could hunt, and see to the management of the estate, and maybe even steal time away to practice her swordplay. Perhaps, given sufficient space, she would be able to avoid her husband aside from what was necessary? She clung to this thought as she gazed around. The road under the wheels of her carriage turned into a meandering path, and her guards were forced to abandon their positions on the sides of the carriage and file before and after it. 

The trees on the sides of the path grew smaller and smaller: scraggly, twisted, they spread their branches towards Csethiro as if they were trying to snatch the roof off her carriage, and stop her. Then they gave way to reeds: she saw a low glint of swamp water. A long-necked white bird rose lazily into a flight, alarmed by their passage. 

The early evening twilight began gathering, slow at first and then all at once, and turned into night’s darkness. Finally, when there was nothing to see, Csethiro leaned against the thin cushions and closed her eyes. She tried to compose a lighthearted, funny letter to her mother and sisters in her head. Begin with the description of those trees... the trees...

"Dach'osmerrem," Mer Aisava said, rapping on the door of the carriage, and Csethiro jerked upwards, waking up to a sudden jolt of terror. "We're here."

Her legs were asleep, and her heart beat heavily. She half-fell out of the carriage, acutely aware, in a way she rarely was, of how rumpled and unpresentable her appearance must be. It was one thing to disdain the court ladies tutting over her rumpled riding or fencing clothes, back at the court. It felt different now.

Then she saw Edonomee in the flickering light of the courier's lantern, and embarrassment fled her mind. It was so _small_ ; a squat, dark building crouching close to the ground, severe in its unloveliness. Weak light was leaking through the closed shutters of one of the narrow windows; otherwise the house as well have been uninhabited. It was - she couldn't even see a _stable_. The airship tethering post she could make out in the distance dwarfed the building. Her family's gardener lived in a bigger house. This was where an archduke of Ethuveraz, no matter how disfavored, lived?

The guards stood to attention. Mer Aisava glanced at her, shrugged his shoulders, and knocked on the door. Nothing happened. He knocked again, stronger, still to no result; Csethiro bit her lip, feeling that, as much as she loathed the prospect of meeting her absent husband for the first time, she loathed the delay even more. What if he wasn't there? If he was dead or ill or gone, would the Emperor consider her family's life forfeit?

Just as the panic began to settle in, the door opened. A servant stood in the doorway, blinking sleepily, a goblin-dark, tall young man in a shabby shirt and breeches that were too short for him, barefoot. And then Csethiro saw his face in the lantern light, and barely bit back a gasp: he had, unmistakably, Varenechibel's eyes and cheekbones.

Mer Aisava twitched in surprise but composed himself almost immediately. "Are you the Archduke Maia Drazhar, only child of Varenechibel the fourth and Chenelo Drazharan?"

"Yes," the young man - her husband - said; she saw him stiffen, straighten.

The courier bowed low. "We bring you a message from His Serenity," he said, "and we have the honor to present to you Dachos'merrem Csethiro Drazharan, your wife."

He gestured at Csethiro and she, for lack of better options, bowed also. She was afraid of what was showing on her face; it was as if she were acting in one of the more overwrought operas - The Peasant Prince? The Unlikely Bride? - and the chorus would come in at any moment.

"We don't understand," the Archduke said, faintly; his ears were pressed flat against his head. There was an old mud stain on the knee of his breeches.

Mer Aisava produced a dispatch case. Just as the Archduke reached to take it, a ruddy, stocky elf with a sneer fixed on his face appeared behind his shoulder. "What's this nonsense, boy?"

The Archduke's shoulders climbed a notch higher. "There's a message from His Serenity, cousin," he said, and the man immediately snatched the case from the courier's hand. The Archduke said, "This is our cousin, Osmer Setheris Nelar," with the slightly mechanical air of somebody finding refuge in formalities. 

Osmer Nelar scanned the contents of the imperial message, and his face spasmed with fury for a moment before freezing in a polite court mask.

"It seems that congratulations are in order," he said to the Archduke, giving him the case. "His Serenity has kindly provided you with a wife, and even took care of the nuptials." He stared directly at Csethiro as he said that, and she flushed hotly under the derision in his gaze. The Archduke finished reading the letter and raised his gaze to her as well. He looked stunned.

"Come in, then," Osmer Nelar said impatiently. "And as for the lot of you, Edonomee doesn't have space to house you. You can spend the night in Calestho."

The Archduke opened his mouth as if to protest, thought better of it, and shut it again, contenting himself with a shallow nod. Mer Aisava bowed; the guards saluted. Setheris Nelar turned his back on them, the audience obviously concluded.

Her husband waited for her. Csethiro, moving each foot with a separate exertion of will, clutched her valise to her, and went toward him.

* * *

She kept her face carefully smooth as she followed her husband and Osmer Nelar into the house. Even beset with her own worries, she could see that the prince's back radiated miserable tension; if nothing else, he seemed to be as upset by the Emperor's decree as she was. The question was, of course, how he would choose to express this unhappiness: but now that she could see him in the flesh, the rumors that circulated around the court began to seem ludicrous.

The drawing room was a rather gloomy, dark-paneled room with a low-hanging ceiling. The massive furniture must have been fashionable in the time of Csethiro's grandmother, and the curtains could use a good wash, but the room itself was decently clean. The fireplace occupied the wall opposite to the entrance, and an iron-wrought fire screen shaped like a tangle of deer antlers dominated the room. The Emperor's portrait on the wall watched her with icy disdain.

There was an opened bottle standing on the low table next to the fireplace; Osmer Nelar crossed the room in two long strides, seized it and took several long gulps straight out of it, to Csethiro's scandalized surprise. The sharp smell of metheglin wafted through the room. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the prince tense up a bit more - but even that didn't prepare her for Osmer Nelar smashing the bottle on the floor with a roared curse.

Csethiro stared, aghast; Osmer Nelar rounded on them, his hands in fists, and she realized that he was already very, very drunk.

"A whore for thee, hobgoblin," Nelar growled. "He'll never send for thee! He's leaving thee here to rot, and me as well..."

" _Cousin_ ," her husband said, agonized. Osmer Nelar sneered at him and kicked the scattered shards on the floor. "Whore, I say! Who else would want to look at thee, thou miserable bastard - thou cursed whelp - if this chit had anybody to care for her, wouldst she be sent here? I ought to - "

She was still reeling, and when Nelar took a threatening, shambling step towards her, she flinched back, for just a moment.

Her husband took a step and stood in front of her. 

"Cousin," he said, and she could hear the effort he put into keeping his voice even. His hands were clasped behind his back, knuckles white with tension. "We ask you not to offend dach'osmerrem again."

At this unexpected act of support, Csethiro's head cleared; she found a fencing stance, straightening her spine, flexing her knees, finding her feet and her balance. Nowhere had it been it said that she'd be required to cower before a bullying, miserable drunk, even if the prince himself was afraid of him - 

\- Setheris Nelar must've been there, as the prince's guardian, since the prince's mother's death, and therefore since the prince was a child. Csethiro saw a pale tangle of ugly scars twining down the prince's forearm, and felt a slow, burning rage. 

She stepped forward and took firm hold of her husband's hand. She pressed his cold fingers with all the reassurance she possessed even as he jerked in surprise. She stared at Nelar. Her favorite fencing tutor, a retired old soldier, had taught her, to her mother's horror, to treat her weapons as deadly, and so to know herself to be deadly as well. She put it into her gaze and her voice.

"Yes, Osmer Nelar. We would ask you not to offend us in our house on our wedding night."

Setheris Nelar face went an ugly shade of apoplectic red. He opened his mouth - closed it - then turned on his heel and fled the room.

* * *

Setheris' departure from the battlefield meant that she was alone with the prince, for the first time - and they were still holding hands. She couldn't help looking down: their fingers still were tightly clasped, as if neither could figure out how to let go.

She raised her eyes, fighting a sudden and inexplicable blush - and met the prince's eyes. They stared at each other for a moment; then he offered her a small, embarrassed smile, and she couldn't help but smile in return. He felt like a co-conspirator now, an ally against the encroaching darkness.

"We apologize," he said, a touch breathlessly. "Cousin Setheris is…"

He trailed off, wringing his hands - what _was_ there to say? - and Csethiro hurriedly said, "It matters not, it matters not, all is well," even though it wasn't. She found that she already couldn't bear him withdrawing into stiff-eared shame.

He swallowed, turned away for a moment, and turned back to her with a more natural expression on her face. "You must be hungry and tired," he said. "We are afraid Pelchara is asleep, but there should be some cold cuts in the pantry. And tea, of course."

"We're famished," she said, honestly; the tension was bleeding out of her, and she felt the yawning emptiness of her stomach, the weariness of her limbs. Impulsively, she said, "May we go with you to the kitchen?"

He seemed startled, but nodded as if he understood just how much she didn't want to sit in the drawing room alone, listening for Nelar' footsteps.

In the kitchen she washed her face and gratefully collapsed into one of the rough wooden chairs, watching him fire up the scuffed samovar and rummage in a pantry. The world took on the hazy contours of a dream: the whole tableau couldn't be more removed from the dark fears that had gripped her on the road, and the violence of her first encounter with Setheris Nelar.

They needed to talk but she couldn’t marshal her thoughts - did he even _know_ about the coup? She'd have to tell him about her father - the Tethimada - tomorrow, she thought, muzzily. Not yet..

He set the plate of cold meats before her, added a cup of tea, and stood, fidgeting, as if he couldn't figure out what to do with his hands next. Csethiro took refuge in her hunger and busied herself with eating. After a pause he made himself a cup too and joined her.

They ate in oddly companionable silence, Csethiro sneaking glances at the prince, and from time to time catching his answering gaze. She couldn't find her words, and he couldn't seem to find them either. Eventually, she barely caught a yawn and bit her lip in embarrassment.

He smiled at her again and ducked his head. Then took the candle and offered her his hand.

* * *

She knew by now not to expect even the barest luxury, but still his bedroom appalled her; it was smaller than servant's quarters in her house, and much more shabbily appointed. And _cold_ ; no carpets on the floor, no curtains to stop the freezing wind from sneaking into the room, and the blankets on the narrow bed threadbare. No personal effects, except for several tattered books on the plain wooden table next to the bed. Darkness poured in through the small window; marsh lights flickered in the distance, but everything else was invisible. In this room, it felt as nothing else ever existed; they were alone. Her stomach cramped, in something not quite like fear.

Csethiro turned back to the room and found him spreading a cloak on the floor. "What are you doing?"

"We'll ask Kevo and Pechara to help us with a second bed tomorrow," he said, his face carefully averted, his ears pressed down. "Tonight, the bed is yours."

"It's your bed," Csethiro said, rather helplessly. How she had loathed her etiquette lessons! She would've killed now for a lesson to cover the situations like this. "We're your _wife_."

"Dach'osmerrem," he said stubbornly, "we beg you not to think us stupid. We might be ignorant, and exiled, but even we understand that you can't be here of your own volition."

Before Csethiro could reply, he continued. "We presume there is a need to keep up appearances, and so we will share the room. But perhaps we could write to one of our half-brothers to ask them to intervene on your behalf. And meanwhile - no one would expect _heirs_ of us."

Such a pitiful, brittle, scarce freedom he offered her, Csethiro thought; and yet it was all he had, and he offered freely, and it was already more than she had hoped for, when his father the Emperor sent her there.

She was so tired; from the road, from her fears, from the confrontation with Setheris Nelar, from the days of terror for her family beforehand. The temptation to take him up on his offer, to lay in his narrow cold bed and pull the bed covers over her head and sleep was staggering. And yet.

And yet, she thought, I want to decide. Here, now, I want to decide what will be mine.

"I know already," she said, and her husband jerked and looked up at her, "that thou art brave, and kind. And that thou chose my side when it might've cost thee."

She'd forbidden herself to think about this first night, in her despair on the way there. She'd fretted and worried and raged about the entirety of her life afterward, but not about this moment. 

And now it seemed so easy. Csethiro crossed the cold room and knelt by her husband's side; it took her two steps, and the cold floor burned her knees. "I want to choose my alliance," she said. Up close, she saw the delicate, flickering shade his eyelashes threw on his high cheekbones; his grey eyes were turning black, his pupils dilating, and his mouth parted softly. She reached out - her chest felt hollow, filled with light - and cupped his icy cheek.

"I want to choose thee," she said, and leaned in.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Morbane for a lovely beta!


End file.
